Beneath the Concrete Sky : Chapter One

        My life is not a happy story. Fortunately for you, it’s not a very interesting story either, so I’m not going to even bother telling it. No, I’m going to tell you the story of another miserable fellow whose life I happened to have been part of. Well, truth be told, I wasn’t exactly part of it, more of a witness really, but that’s good enough for our purposes.

His name was Eric. I never bothered to learn his last name, and I don’t think he would have told me had I asked him. I met Eric by way of an accident, although attempted murder would be a better way to describe it. I was minding my own business, scrounging for cans in the dumpster outside of one of those trendy night clubs they plant in areas of town that are deemed worthy of gentrification. I believe it was called, quite simply, Drink. Anyway, being close to 2AM, a steady stream of moderately intoxicated hipster-trendsters was flowing out of the venue, creating a small pool of wobbly individuals waiting for their Uber rides and designated drivers. Just another Friday night, as far as I was concerned, and I did my best to tune out their obnoxious raucousness. I gave up on finding any cans among the piles of discarded bottles of craft beer and decided to call it a night, when, over the din of the crowd, I heard a shout.

“What the fuck is with you, man?!”

The rest of the throng of people suddenly went silent and instinctively formed a circle around the two who were arguing.

“Just back the hell off, okay! I told you I’m done. We’re done.”

“What?! We’re done? WE’RE DONE?! What the hell does that even mean?”

Now, I couldn’t very well see this confrontation, but it was clear from their voices that it involved two men and a relationship gone badly wrong. Just how badly became evident a moment later.

First there was another cry.

“I said back the hell off!”

Then there was a collective gasp from the crowd as it parted to allow one of the squabbling men to be pushed into the street. Quite predictably, the evicted individual lost his balance at the curb and began to fall backwards. Fortunately for him, a Toyota Prius was just pulling over, and he managed to catch himself on the vehicle’s side-view mirror. Unfortunately for him, the side-view mirrors of a Prius are about as sturdy as papier-mâché, and, with a sharp crack from the plastic, it snapped off, allowing the poor bastard to slide down into the space between the car and the curb.

The man barely had time to get to his feet, when the owner of the Prius shot out of his vehicle with a fury.

“Dude! What the fuck?! Look what you did to my car, you drunk piece of shit!”

The accused had no time to mount a defense, because the aggressor had grabbed him by his shirt and with little effort threw him back into the crowd. Things went more downhill from there. Rather than admitting defeat and scurrying off, the tossed individual charged his attacker, who gleefully accepted the challenge.

“You want to go? YOU WANT TO GO!?”

The next sequence of events happened very quickly. First, the Prius owner landed a vicious right hook to the other man’s jaw. Then, as the victim started to slump to the ground, apparently unconscious, his attacker again grabbed him by his shirt, this time launching him into street. With no ability to brace himself for the landing and no slowly-approaching cars to break his fall, the man hit the pavement first with his knees and then with his face. To everyone watching, including myself, it appeared as if the man was dead.

There was a brief moment of stunned silence, then the calm was broken with an enraged roar. The first aggressor, the one who had started the whole thing with a push, ran up behind the Prius driver and punched him in the back of the head, who then fell forward onto the hood of his car. The passenger of the vehicle, who until this point I wasn’t even aware of, promptly jumped out, and the real chaos began.

                “He’s got a gun!” someone from the crowd screamed.

                Everyone tried running in seemingly opposite directions at once and ended up in a tangled mass of panicked individuals. More screams ensued, accompanied by the inexplicable sounds of breaking glass.

                The former passenger looked extremely confused, because it turns out, that what was in his hands was not a gun at all, but rather his phone. He tried to diffuse the situation by getting back into the car, but by that point, no one seemed to be paying any attention to him.

                The Prius driver had come to his senses, and after looking in vain for the punk who had sucker punched him, wobbled back to his hybrid-electric shit-box, and sped off. 

                Amazingly, the man in the street was now giving a small indication that he was alive by moving his legs, but by then the scene outside the bar was deserted. Well, deserted save for myself, but I really didn’t want to get involved. Unfortunately, the thoughts that this person could end up quite literally dying on the street and all of the indignities associated with such a demise struck just a tad too close to home. I reluctantly went to his aid.

Standing a good ten feet away from the man, I tried to determine his mental state. “Uh, sir, can you hear me?”

He answered with a groan. Whether it was purely reflexive or an affirmation, I couldn’t tell, but I decided to take it as a yes.

“Okay, sir, you’ve been in a pretty serious accident, and I believe you require medical attention. Do you have a phone that I can use to call the paramedics?”

Two things then occurred simultaneously. Off in the distance the sound of police siren arose, and the man on street suddenly became much more animated. He jerked upright, rising wobbly to his feet, and looked at me with an odd mixture of panic and confusion.

“Who the hell are you?”

“I? Honestly, I am no one, or rather, I am just someone who…”

“Forget it. I got get out of here.” He turned to make his escape and promptly stumbled to the ground.

“Oh shit! Damn it! Fuck!”

“Yes, sir, your legs were severely injured in your, eh, fall. Might I offer you some assistance?”

“Oh shit,” he repeated. I went to help him off the street.

Managing to leverage him up and place his arm across my shoulders, we hobbled to the curb, then paused. By then the police sirens were noticeably closer, and this seemed to inspire a sense of desperation in the man. He turned his head and spoke rapid-fire into my ear.

“Hey look, I don’t know you, but you got get me out of here, okay, I can’t be dealing with the cops right now.”

Given his poor physical condition, I could only assume that whatever reason he had for avoiding the authorities had to be a pretty good one, so I obliged his request. We limped our way back across the street to the safety of the alleyway shadows. Not more than twenty seconds after we had disappeared, a police cruiser went blazing by, apparently on its way to another scene. Truly amazing. Not one person in that entire crowd of self-absorbed louts thought it was necessary to call the police or for an ambulance after witnessing a man being brutally assaulted and left for dead. Just how little regard for human life do these younger generations have?

“Okay, stop,” the man protested as he pulled away from me. “I can take it from here.”

I turned to look at him. Although the lighting in the alleyway was practically non-existent, I could make out the dark stains spreading down his pants from his shredded knees, and the blood that continued to ooze from the multiple abrasions on his face produced a truly ghastly portrait. I sighed before involving myself further with his affairs.

“Sir, might I suggest that, if you truly want to avoid the attention of the police, you clean yourself up. Your current state is far from inconspicuous.”

“What?”

“Sorry, what I mean to say is that you look like a deranged psychopath who just came off an all-night murder spree with a pick-axe.”

He responded with a vacant stare.

 “You’re covered in blood.”

“Oh shit, yeah.” He winced as he touched his face. When his fingers reopened the some of the wounds, I winced as well.

“How bad is it?” he asked, continuing to poke around.

“Frankly, I’m surprised at how little damage there is. Given the way you landed, I would have expected at least some chipped teeth or a broken nose.”

“Yeah, my lucky day.” His prodding was really beginning to unnerve me now, and I decided to intervene.

“If you want to avoid getting those infected, I’d suggest getting them sterilized and bandaged.”

“What are you, some sort of doctor?”

“Not exactly, no. Let’s just say I have some experience in medical care. I would offer to help, but… ” I trailed off, leaving the statement open to his interpretation. Understandably, he looked more than little skeptical.

“Right… yeah, I’m gonna pass on that, man. No offense.”

“None taken.”

I believe it was at that moment, that Eric first stopped seeing me. It took him longer than most. There was a subtle rise in his brow and a shift in his eyes away from my center, and just like that, I was gone. I went from being a person to being a homeless person. The former is a someone; the latter is a something. I call it “the instant of dehumanization.” It’s understandable.

“Hey man, you… do you live… uh, you staying somewhere close?”

“Actually, we’re standing on what could be considered my doorstep,” I responded.

He did a quick scan of the alleyway, noticeably pausing at the tarp covered box to the side. A simple, “Oh,” was his response.

“Yes, well, I suppose you’ll be on your way. If you go back out to the street and hang a right, there’s a twenty-four hour Walgreen’s about half a mile over. Get some peroxide and bandages. And don’t worry about upsetting the cashier. Believe me, she’s seen worse.” I lowered myself down, my own knees protesting from arthritis, and sat at the entryway of my ersatz home. Feeling the shakes begin to set in, I hoped that he would take the hint and leave. He did. Before his silhouette even cleared the alleyway, I had my kit out and semi-frantically tying off my left arm. I had the needle poised above one of the few remaining usable veins when I heard the screech of tires taking a turn much too fast then skidding to a halt.

“HEY! MOTHERFUCKER! SUCK ON THIS!” From the echoing voice I surmised that the Prius driver had returned and just by chance encountered his former adversary. Talk about poor timing.

I heard a panicked cry of “Oh shit,” followed by a series of loud pops. Tires squealed once again, and from my vantage point I saw the silver flash of the vehicle as it sped by. Shoddy exterior aside, those hybrids do have some pretty good torque.

I still held the needle in my hand, and for a moment I actually thought about putting it down. But what was the rush, really? I shot up, untied, buried my kit underneath a pile of clothes, and reluctantly went to check out the scene.

Beneath the dim-yellow street-lighting, it was hard to tell that it was a person lying face-down in the road and not just an overly stuffed garbage bag someone had dumped. I really think that speaks more about the type of clothes people wear today than anything else, but it was still a bit discomforting to see.

Checking to make sure the area was deserted, I cautiously approached the body.

“You can get up now,” I said, gently prodding him with my shoe.

“Ughhh, man, I’ve been shot.” His groaning sounded more like he had just woken up with a hangover.

“Yes, well, unless you’re secretly an alien who oozes green blood, I don’t think the shot is fatal.”

“What?” He tilted his head towards me and grimaced. “Man, I said I’ve been shot. Call an ambulance or something.”

“Oh please, you think I can’t tell the difference between the sound of a paint-ball gun and a pistol? Pick yourself up and get out of the street. I don’t want to be around if those guys come back. Next time, they might be packing a balloon filled with urine or something equally childish.”

Moaning in protest, he pushed himself into the sitting position, and still not convinced about his physical state, patted himself down. His hands came away coated in a green slick.

“Shit.” He sounded embarrassed.

“Just be glad you’re in a good part of town,” I consoled him.

“Whatever,” he replied while unsteadily getting to his feet.  “Oh shit! I really fucked up my legs.”

While there was substantially more blood coating the lower legs of his pants, I chose to address a more pressing issue.

“You say that a lot.”

“What?”

“Shit. You say that word a lot.”

“So?” he questioned, almost falling over.

“So… being an explicative it should be used sparingly to produce a greater impact for when it is implemented.”

“Man, what is with you?”

“Just trying to help.”

“Ahhh,” he sucked air between his teeth as he took a step away from me. “You can help me get to the curb.”

As before, I placed his arm over my shoulder, together we hobbled our way out of the street. Enduring his excessive hissing and groaning, I gently lowered him down, then sat a few feet beside him. Up close, I saw that he was really just a kid, maybe in his early twenties, certainly not older than twenty-five, but more than likely not old enough to legally drink. He hung his head between his torn-up knees and let out a deep breath. The kid, and I say this with emphasis, looked like shit.

Not one to pry, I waited for him to initiate the conversation. The silence quickly became uncomfortable.

“You really need to pick better friends,” I advised.

“What?” He picked his head up, and even though he didn’t look at me directly, I could tell that he had been crying. The dried blood on his face had a new sheen from his tears. 

“Your friend, the one who pushed you, he doesn’t seem to be a very admirable guy.”

“No shit! How’s that work for you, huh? No, fucking shit.” I remained silent.

“And he’s not my friend,” he scoffed, before quietly adding, “Not anymore.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that. He did seem awfully upset at the thug who tossed you into street, which indicates to me that he still at least somewhat cares for you. Although, his coming to your defense was both a bit late and a whole lot… well, cowardly.”

“Man, my head hurts, my body hurts, will you just talk so I know what the hell it is you’re saying? Jesus.”

In deference to his injuries, I accommodated his exasperation.

“He punched the guy in the back of the head, then ran off.”

“Huh,” he laughed quietly. “Figures. Sean’s real big on taking cheap shots.”

There wasn’t a whole lot left to say at that point, not without getting into more personal matters at least, and yet I stayed. I may have acted differently had I not been under the influence, so to speak, but it didn’t really matter all that much. I had nowhere to be, and the kid didn’t seem to mind the company. So we sat, myself captivated by the moths that danced and flitted around the sodium arc-lamp that hung above us, him staring at the ground. It was nice.

I woke up alone. Next to me, the curb was stained with dried blood and a few streaks of neon green where he had wiped his hands. I didn’t hold it against him that he had left without saying thank you or even so much as a goodbye. Again, it was understandable, and I probably would have done the same.

Response to another email from someone who is confused on the definition of socialism.

Having received another email claiming to be a "concerned citizen fed up with the way this country is headed," I've decided to once again go to my keyboard and push back against thinly veiled racism and class warfare. The letter supposedly was written by a woman named Cyndy Miller to the executive director of the AARP. In it she explains why she and her husband are not renewing their membership to the association. The full letter can be read by clicking here. To summarize its contents, she basically is in complete disagreement with the AARP's continued support of the Obama administration and their "Socialist Mindset." She doesn't like illegal immigrants because, according to her, they get too many handouts. Actually, she seems to be opposed to everything the government does, and doesn't like tax money going to anyone or anything. She supports political gridlock and partisan strife by stating that "DIVIDED WE FAIL presents neither an impartial view nor the one we have come to embrace." Mrs. Miller seems to prefer inequity and total self reliance. She takes into consideration neither the racism that still plagues this country or the social obstacles that the disadvantaged face. While the letter has apparently been correctly attributed to Cyndy Miller, it could have easily been produced by a computer algorithm set to write with a strong right-wing bent and strident hatred of the president. "Obama is a socialist. Socialism is bad. Obama is bad. (I'm not too keen on minorities either.) God bless America. I'm angry. Grrrr." Standard drivel that gets passed onto everyone and shouldn't be read by anyone. Anyway, what follows is my response.

I know ad hominem attacks should be avoided, but this is just a stupid diatribe of an uniformed and racist (against immigrants for sure) woman who is "afraid of what this country has turned into." What exactly that means is unclear; she simple calls Obama a "socialist," and she assumes that explains everything. Her rant against immigrants is ludicrous. This country was founded on immigrants, and the current animosity towards "those illegals" is referring solely to those coming from Mexico and other countries in the southern hemisphere. At one time, the same type of paranoia surrounded the Polish, Italians, Germans, etc. The only difference is that then we didn't really have the concept of "illegal American." Our current immigration policy is the problem, and contrary to what this lady claims, illegal immigrants pay into the tax system more than they receive. For example, say an undocumented individual works under the table for cash only. Well, he or she still has to pay sales tax on purchases. If they are using a false social security number, then they are paying into a system that they will never receive any benefits from. There are plenty of citizens who treat the emergency rooms as a doctor's office, and 47 million citizens on food stamps (again something illegals are not eligible for). If her concept of "Socialist Mindset" refers to a government that looks out for the least of us, then I'm all for it. She doesn't like seeing people (i.e. minorities) receiving handouts. Perhaps if she noticed the shitty life circumstances that many of them have been born into she would have a little more compassion. When the remnants of racial segregation and increasingly, class segregation give rise to impoverished neighborhoods and substandard schools, the children raised in these areas never have a chance. Sure they try to excel, and some do, but the road they have to take is littered with obstacles. How can they afford to go to college? Without college, what kind of jobs are they going to get? If someone has to bust their ass just to make ends meet, don't they deserve a little help from others? But as a "little old, white lady" she's never faced the kind of discrimination that the lower class have. She sure can dish it out though.

I understand that there are government inefficiencies that lead to mistakes. Some people game the system in order to get more out a disability check than they should. Others abuse the food assistance programs. But these are rare occurrences. Simply put, the United States is the wealthiest country in the world, and there is no excuse for the kind of financial inequity that is oppressing so many of its citizens (and non-citizens). What scares me is that some people are perfectly fine watching this country become a land of the "haves" and the "have nots." If all you care about is not paying taxes and cutting all government spending, then be prepared to live in an uncaring and uncompromising nation. Medicaid? Nope, sorry. If you're old you should have saved in life. But you're only 72, why not get a job? Lost your job? Can't help you. You're going to have to find a way to take care of your family and find a job in this terrible job market. You get my point? It's great if you can make it life without ever needing someone's help, but there is a significant portion of this country who have been given a raw deal from the beginning. Are we all a bunch of heartless bastards who care nothing for others? Why are we essentially equating as criminals the people who are down on there luck or never had any luck at all?

Sorry Mrs. Miller, but you aren't mad; you are scared because you perceive this country as shifting away from white dominance. You think something is being taken from you, but it's not. You see social equity is not a zero sum game. Raising up the poor does not make the rich less wealthy; it makes the county stronger. Immigrants come to the U.S. because it is still a great nation and a land of opportunity, but we can stand to open even more doors of opportunity. So you're afraid of "20 million" immigrants becoming citizens? That's about a 6% increase in the U.S. population. 6%! Now is that really so scary? Sure the country is going through changes, but it shouldn't make you paranoid. If you don't like the AARP's political stance fine. Just try not to confuse socialism with democratic compassion, and try to keep your racism more concealed.

All Aboard

Jeff had never ridden on a train before, and even though the Acela Express, number 2173 was more than half-way to Boston, this was still technically true. He had died before the train even left the station. 


Jeff had been nervous about this job interview. He had just blown the last of his savings on this train ticket (he sold his car well over a year ago), and if he didn’t land this position he was pretty sure that Stacey would take the kids and move to Chicago. In with her mother, that unbearable old-hag, who always said that he’d never amount to anything. Why was Stacey wasting her time on a loser like him, and isn’t it the man’s responsibility to support his family? Well, Jeff B. Hollows would show her; he’d show all of them. He was more than qualified to be a Data Entry Clerk at Boston Medical. Hell, he’d written programs to handle the interoperations between servers that handle the damn data. That is until the company he worked for got bought up by some faceless conglomerate. Then it was “sorry, really hate to do this, but we’re going to have to let you go, corporate downsizing and all, it just a tough time all over.” Bullshit. They were shipping his job to some underpaid pion in some piss-ant country that probably broke every labor law in the book, if there even was a book. Damn bean-counters, didn’t they care that he has a family to take care of, not to mention a psycho-hag-mother-in-law to keep at bay? They might as well have cut off his balls.

Damn, his ulcer was killing him. Jeff checked his watch, and winced when he saw that he had a good three hours before his train arrived. Man, he needed some Tums, or Pepto-Bismol, or both. Geez, was his stomach acid eating through his shirt?
Having grown up in Philadelphia, Jeff knew the area well, and headed off to CVS on UPenn’s campus. It was less than a mile away, and was next to a Starbucks, where maybe he could afford a Chai Tea Latte, which really was no substitute for his preferred double-shot espresso, but his doctor told him that he should lay off the coffee. Doctor’s orders or not, he still felt like a pansy ordering tea. 


Cutting down Woodland Walk, and encountering a throng of revolting fit and trim co-eds out for a jog, Jeff felt that weird combination of nostalgia and regret that is created when one makes an irreversible, life-altering decision and then second-guesses it from that moment on. What if he had stayed and finished his degree? Would he have still ended up as a beaten-down, slightly pudgy, jobless schmuck with a hole in his stomach? Maybe. Who knows? Really, who cares? He’d had enough of people telling him “I told you so.” Yeah, maybe dropping out his junior year was stupid, but wasn’t it the responsible thing to do? When Stacey destroyed his world with the bombshell that she was pregnant, he could have just ditched her, but he didn’t. Instead, they got married (even though Stacey lied to him about being on the pill), and he went out into the real world and got a job while she stayed on to finish her degree. Of course, when Lisa was born there was a lot of fancy footwork for both of them, juggling schedules and passing the baby off like a football. But they made it work. Damn-it he made it work. His grip tightened on his briefcase as he thought about what he’d given up, what he’d sacrificed, and how he was still paying for it.


His mind adrift, Jeff didn’t even realize what he was doing until he found himself on what his just turned 8 years old son, Jacob called the “cures for burps and farts aisle.” This was usually said with accompanying sound effects, which Jeff had to feign disapproval of. It was kind of funny, and actually, if you threw in constipation and diarrhea, then you had a pretty accurate description of the aisle. 


Since every drug store on the planet had basically the same layout, he quickly found his calcium-carbonate tablets of salvation. Jeff initially grabbed his usual fruit flavored variety, but then thought better of it. It was probably a good idea to go with the mint variety. He didn’t want to go into his interview with breath smelling like he just ate a bowl of Fruit Loops; it might give the impression of immaturity. He had to skip the Pepto as well. It always turned his tongue black, and that was just weird looking. 


He made his purchase (and no, he didn’t have a “rewards card, and no, he didn’t want to sign up for one either), and headed next door to get his tea and waste another two hours thinking hopeful thoughts.


The place was surprisingly empty, but then again it was a Starbucks on a university campus. All of the hipster college kids would be at some local coffee place that was “authentic,” whatever that meant. Naive, idiots didn’t even realize that more and more of the small, seemingly private owned coffee shops were really just fronts for the big guys. They might as well call it the New World Order of coffee. 


The mopey dude with the black eyeliner and pierced lower lip (Jeff refused to call them “baristas”), dutifully took his order and Jeff paid from what little cash he had in his wallet. Stacey always checked the credit card statement, and he didn’t need to be bitched at for wasting money.


Having the place to himself, Jeff took a seat by the window and effectively ended his life with the decision. 


Sliding his briefcase beneath his chair, Jeff took the bottle of Tums out of his pocket, and when peeling of the inner safety seal, spilled three tablets on the table. One of them rolled a little ways before coming down flat on a small spot of moisture. How it got there was anyone’s guess. Maybe from someone’s carelessly uncovered sneeze. Maybe a drop of sweat from some Adderall laced student as he crammed for mid-terms. If “Mopey-Dude” had done his job by properly cleaning the tables it wouldn’t have mattered at all. But you really shouldn’t assume that any does their job nowadays, and if Jeff’s ulcer hadn’t been trampling on his ability to think straight he probably wouldn’t have done what he did next.


Scooping up the three tablets, he popped them into his mouth, thoroughly chewing them into a chalky paste, and swallowing them down. He was going to chase them with a sip of his tea, but when he put the cup to his lips he nearly scalded himself. Why the hell do they have to make these things 300 degrees so you have wait half an hour before being able to drink to? It’s too bad that in this case, that temperature likely would have saved his life has he been able to get it down his throat. The heat would have been more than enough to kill the microscopic colony of bacteria he just ingested.


While the bugs couldn’t stand heat, they handled the acidity of Jeff’s stomach just fine. In fact they thrived in it. See, in all of their previous carriers they ended up in trapped in the people’s respiratory system, or if somebody didn’t wash their hands, on their skin. In those locations the bacterial species didn’t do so well. The single-celled organisms would sluggishly divide, not doing any real harm, and most of the time would die off without the carrier even being aware of how close they came to an untimely and gruesome demise. In the low pH of Jeff’s stomach however, they took off like a nuclear chain reaction. Sure the calcium-carbonate he’d ingested neutralized some of the acid, but the effect was mostly relegated to the area around the lower esophageal sphincter. The conditions in the rest of Jeff’s stomach were more than favorable for his newly acquired colonizers, and the epithelial cells that formed the organ’s inner lining served as fine-dining.


The bacteria soon began releasing a toxin that was quite similar to the one produced by Clostridium botulinum, otherwise known as Botox. By inhibiting the release of neurotransmitters, the toxin effectively destroyed the enteric nervous system. The nociceptors that detected pain fell silent, and the stomach itself relaxed, as it no longer received commands to contract. Gut motility ceased, and the bacteria were trapped in a limp bag of acid. As far as Jeff was concerned, all he felt was the subsidence of the burning pain that had been an ever present reminder of the stress he was under. Of course, he attributed this to the antacids, forgetting that he’d been popping them down like candy for months and they never worked this well before. Hey, maybe the damn thing was healing on its own. About time something started going his way; he sure as hell could afford any more trips to the doctor. He reached for his tea but found that he no longer had any interest in it. While Jeff chalked it up to nerves, in reality this was due to the fact that his brain was no longer receiving any input from the Vagus nerve that connected to his stomach. No sensation meant no internal motivation to ingest anything. 
While Jeff ruminated over blowing four dollars on tea, his gastro-pals were having a field day. Dividing like mad, the single cells clustered together, forming a biofilm that lined the many folds and crevices of Jeff’s stomach. An unfortunate byproduct of this fast-paced, metabolic orchestra was hydrogen gas. As it accumulated the stomach began to expand, but due to inhibition of the stretch detecting nerve cells, Jeff remained completely unaware that a time-bomb was slowly building from within. 


A pair of scantily-clad teens bounced past the storefront window, hypnotically swinging their hips. Jeff stared of course, not out of any sense of arousal, but of thoughtful analysis. How did they manage to walk like that without throwing out their back? Speaking of which, the chair he was sitting in certainly wasn’t doing his own back any favors. And off he went down the rabbit-hole of strung together thoughts and random musings on the vagaries of his own life.
Jeff broke out his trance when his watch beeped on the hour. His train should be arriving in another 30 minutes. As he bent down to pick up his briefcase, a massive belch escaped from his mouth. While this relieved some of the pressure that had been building within, and actually bought him another 10 minutes of life, it was incredibly embarrassing. Jeff quickly jerked upright, and gave a sideways glance to Mr. Mopey behind the counter. Fortunately, he was plugged into an iPod and was humming along to Jimmy Buffett’s “Margaritaville,” which when you think about it, is surprisingly well suited for a deserted coffee shop. Giving one final, disapproving look at his untouched tea, he hurried out the door and began his walk back to the station. 


Along the way, Jeff noticed that his pants kept pinching at his waist. He really didn’t want to start having to replace his wardrobe, so he vowed to start back up on his jogging routine first thing tomorrow. A new job, a new Jeff, but damn he’d put on a lot of weight. He figured that was the reason he was so short of breath just from walking. Well, that and his pack-a-day habit, that at least he had cut back from a two-pack-a-day habit. 


Of course, the real cause of his most immediate problems was the hydrogen gas that was continuing to accumulate in his stomach. As the organ expanded, it bulged not only outward but upwards against Jeff’s diaphragm. His lungs were slowly being compressed, reducing the amount of air he could take in with each breath, and with each exhalation, the stomach took hold of just a little more space.


He had slowed his pace considerably, and was huffing like a winded basset hound when he dragged into the station. Jeff was relieved to find that his train had arrived early, and he was able to board right away. He needed to sit down soon or he thought his lungs would explode, which of course, was entirely off the mark, but a logical assumption. He staggered to his seat, ignoring the uneasy glances he received from the few passengers already aboard, and collapsed down. By this time, the bacterial emissions had squeezed their way past the pyloric sphincter and made it into Jeff’s intestines, which fully distended and took on the appearance of an overstuffed sausage casing. They did not take kindly to Jeff’s rough landing, and as expected, forcibly expelled their contents directly into Jeff’s pants. This would have been horrifying if not for the fact that Jeff was facing a much more serious predicament than a sewage leak. His diaphragm was pressing up against his heart with such force that it was inhibiting its normal contractions. At the same time, Jeff’s lungs were reduced to shriveled sacks that had nearly collapsed against the thoracic cavity wall. Unable to speak and incredibly weakened, Jeff couldn’t signal his distress to anyone. Not that there was anything anyone could do besides punching a hole in his abdomen. Surprisingly, Jeff was conscious when his heart stopped. As his vision tunneled and greyed, his last thoughts were of the job interview he had been going to. He died truly believing he would have nailed it and gotten the job. Fortunately for him, he would never be aware of the fact that the position had already been filled.


While Jeff’s life ended here, the residents he housed went about their business as usual. Eventually, they would have chewed through the epithelial cell layer, and the acidity that spurred their activity would be neutralized. The bacteria would slowly die off, and by the time Jeff’s body made it to the coroner’s for an autopsy, most of the gas would have escaped into the atmosphere. The doctor would take a look inside, determine it was a heart attack, maybe make a note about the sorry state of his stomach, and relay the message to the unlucky intern who had to call Jeff’s family with the news. But, like they had done all his life, things didn’t play out so well for Jeff.


Understandably, Jeff didn’t notice that when he plopped down into his seat the contents of his left pocket spilled out onto the floor of the aisle. Among those contents was a cheap, run-of-the-mill lighter that Jeff had brought along to light a celebratory cigarette after his interview. When the train pulled into Boston, the passengers disembarked. A teenager on a not so thrilling trip to visit his Grandma made his way down the aisle and spotted the lighter. Picking it up, and almost gagging on the smell of what had to be a dirty diaper, he did what any other kid would have done and flicked the wheel to light it. With that, the steady stream of flammable hydrogen that had been seeping out of Jeff’s two major orifices became the fuse to a bomb. 


Apart from the pieces that had to be scrapped off the windows and from the clothes of one traumatized kid (he would never again be able to watch any of the “Aliens” movies), nothing was left of Jeff but a charred corpse. While most unfortunate, his violent death did make something out of him; Jeff B. Hallows became known as the first person to have reportedly, spontaneously combusted while on a train.

Response to a hate filled woman.

Like most, I have received more than enough emails expressing disdain for President Obama and his administration. Some are nothing more than cherry-picked examples of things that he has done wrong or gaffs he has made. Many are simply racist. Most are made up of lies. Recently, I was forwarded an essay written by someone named Maureen Scoot that was so ridiculously constructed and filled with such vitriolic drivel that I felt compelled to respond. If you want, take a moment to read her essay here: http://www.renewamerica.com/columns/scott/130301. It is hard to read through it without laughing, and she basically repeats the same thing over and over again. In any event, Ms. Scott is clearly uniformed and does not seem inclined change her close-minded and false views. She is deliberately malicious, and as I will reveal, a liar. I want to be clear that I am not an Obama devotee. He has done many things that I find deplorable, but my issues are with his policies. I disagree with some of things he has done; I do not hate the man nor do I think that he is out to destroy our democracy. Any person who can get elected as President is so thoroughly vetted by the primaries and actual election campaigns that the notion that an "anti-American" is now in the Oval Office is beyond belief. Apparently, Ms. Scott needs to be reacquainted with reality, assuming that she was ever familiar with it in the first place.

Let me begin with the actual definition of a demagogue. According to the Merriam-Webster Dictionary a demagogue is "a leader who makes use of popular prejudices and false claims and promises in order to gain power," or "a leader championing the cause of the common people in ancient times." In other words, it is someone who uses peoples' fears, prejudices, or popular opinion to obtain and hold onto power. Based on the description provided by Ms. Scott, President Obama is anything but a demagogue. According to her, Obama works against the popular ideas of the people and advocates for the decline of the country. Clearly, this is not a demagogue. Rather, her message is that the President of the United States hates America and wants to destroy it. This is patently false, and her claims are unsupported by any evidence. Moreover, despite her claims to the contrary, Ms. Scott's essay is nothing more than thinly veiled racism. It is the classic example of "he is different, therefore he is not to be trusted." 

Instead of simply being forthright and saying that she just doesn't like the President, Ms. Scott uses an ad hominem attack against Obama in a poor attempt to portray him as a bad President. Not once does she mention any actual policies, laws, or actions. She begins by planting the false idea that President Obama was raised by a family that taught him to hate America. Nothing can be further from the truth. First, for the first 10 years of his life, Obama was raised by his white Mother, Ann Dunham, who was from Wichita, Kansas. True, Obama's father was a Kenyan, but his father left before Barack was a year old and only visited his son once before he was killed in a car accident in 1982. Barack was born in Hawaii, but his mother (after divorcing Barack's father) remarried and moved to Indonesia to be with her new husband. For two years, Barack went to a Catholic School and then went to a secular, public school. At no point did he ever receive any indoctrination against America. When he was 10, Barack went to live with his maternal grandparents (again, they are white), Madelyn and Stanley Dunham. Stanley Dunham served in World War II with the 1830th Ordnance Supply and Maintenance Company. I doubt that a WWII vet would teach his grandson to "hate" America. Barack went to a college prep school from age 10 until he graduated high school. Remember, this was in Hawaii. Where along this time would he have been exposed to negative ideas about the U.S.? Who would have taught him to be resentful of America? The answer: no one.

As for Ms. Scott's claims that the President is "void of emotion" when it comes to the U.S., I'd like to offer several examples that refute this idea. First, as a community organizer in Chicago, Barack showed great compassion for the poor and under-served. He set up job training programs, tutoring programs, and other types of assistance. At the time he was earning a pittance, and only someone who truly cares would make the kind of financial sacrifice that Barack did. After law school, Barack taught constitutional law at the University of Chicago and was also a civil rights attorney, again showing his commitment to both the rules of the country and the citizens themselves. During his first presidential campaign, Mr. Obama praised the U.S. and its people many times. Here are just a few examples from some of his speeches (emphasis added):

"It is that promise that has always set this country apart - that through hard work and sacrifice, each of us can pursue our individual dreams but still come together as one American family, to ensure that the next generation can pursue their dreams as well."

"We measure progress by how many people can find a job that pays the mortgage; whether you can put a little extra money away at the end of each month so you can someday watch your child receive her college diploma."

"Instead, it is that American spirit - that American promise - that pushes us forward even when the path is uncertain; that binds us together in spite of our differences; that makes us fix our eye not on what is seen, but what is unseen, that better place around the bend."

"Thank you, and God bless America."

"This belief comes from my unyielding faith in the decency and generosity of the American people."

True, President Obama pointed out the short-comings of the U.S. and things that could be improved. That's because he wanted to improve them. "Yes we can!" meant that we as people can work to make this country even better than it is. If you think that this country is perfect then you are delusional. When Barack states that something is wrong with the country, he is not saying that everything is wrong with the country. When you love something you want to see it succeed and achieve its potential, and the U.S. still has so much more potential. The President knows this and works towards making America better. He has made mistakes, even lied, but what president hasn't? Remember the Iran-Contra Affair? Watergate? How about "I did not have sexual relations with that woman." Or WMDs in Iraq. President's aren't perfect, but screwing up doesn't mean you hate the country. President Obama has never done anything to compromise America's dominance over every other country on the planet. 

Ms. Scott calls the President "haughty," but his apparently "cold" demeanor would be called "stoic" in anyone else. Make no mistake, the President has shed tears for the people of this country. He was visibly tearful after the school shooting in Connecticut, as he was at the late Senator Inouye's funeral. He clearly was emotional when he thanked his campaign staff after the election. With heartfelt words, he praised the troops at Arlington Field on Memorial Day. The list goes on. 

Ultimately, the reason President Obama is called the most divisive president in our history (which in itself is ridiculous considering that the country split in two under Lincoln), is that the people are so divided. Most Republicans never gave him a chance and allowed their own prejudices to color their view of the President. Obama's detractors don't listen to his words or policies; they just see an angry black man. It is one thing to disagree on politics. This is fine and is a healthy part of the democratic process. But when a large portion of the country refuses to see past their own biases and would rather see the country immobilized on nearly every front, things have gone past the point of normal, political disagreement and entered into the realm of intractable hatred for anyone who holds an opposing view. 

The President did not and does not want to divide the country. The people did that on their own. Ms. Scott is just another knife in a drawer full of extremists seeking to further cleave this country in half. Her words are destructive, false, contradictory, and misguided. She herself seems to be filled with the vitriol and spite that she attributes to the President. Patriotism is not some blind devotion to a mythical, idealized notion of what America once was. Patriotism means putting aside our differences in order to work together for the betterment of the country. That is love for the U.S., and it is something that the President has advocated since day one.

You Don't Deal with Monsters; You Slay Them.

People make life-altering decisions all the time. Take this job, move to this city, marry this person, etc. Most people however, are not faced with a decision between life and death. Unfortunately, I now find myself, once again, face to face with this choice. Fortunately, the decision is really very simple: I choose to live. What this decision entails is anything but simple or easy. 

As I have previously written, I have been struggling with eating disorders for over half my life. What began as anorexia, morphed into bulimia, and has finally transformed into something so all-controlling and hideous that it has robbed me of a life and left me physically incapacitated. Undoubtedly, I have have made strides of improvement, but the monster still remains. Consequently, my health and ultimately my life are still in jeopardy. 

I am sick of this. 

I am sick of feeling like crap all of the time. I am sick of feeling so emotionally drained that I cannot engage in normal social interactions. I am sick of being out of control while living under the illusion that I am. I know where all of my physical and psychological problems arise from, and I am going to stamp it out once and for all. 

I know that I will never have a normal relationship with food. Like an alcoholic or drug user, I will also be someone with a disease. But the alcoholic or druggie has it comparatively easy compared to me. No one needs alcohol or drugs, so strict avoidance is relatively easy to achieve. Food, on the other hand, presents a problem. I have to eat to live, so I must expose myself to the very thing that is my addiction. Knowing this, my solution is to stop thinking of food as food. Rather, I have to think of food as medicine that is necessary for me to get and stay well. I have been doing this for almost a year now, and as a result I have gained over 30 pounds. Now 150 lbs at 5'10" I am in the healthy weight range, and I hope to continue to increase my weight as I gain muscle mass. 

This is all well and good, but I am continuing to undermine myself by succumbing to the Siren song of food as the enemy. This type of food instigates binge-purge episodes that go on for hours. It is the type of food that breaks me down and renders me incapable of controlling myself. It is the destroyer, but I now know that I can in fact break its hold on me. I have done "trial periods" of up to a week where I avoid any binge-purge episodes. With further incentives, I know that I can give up this behavior indefinitely. I have established these incentives:

By abandoning my self-destructive behavior I will: 
Reclaim my personal life.
Put an end to the physical problems that plague me.
Free up so much time to pursue further academic endeavors.

Finally, I am going to do something rather drastic, but it will serve as daily reminder that I never want to return to the darkness. I am going to undergo a bilateral parotidectomy. Allow me to explain what this means. First of all, the parotid glands are the salivary glands on the sides of the face that normally go unnoticed. These are the same glands that become enlarged in children with mumps. One of the repercussions of constant, forced vomiting is that the parotid glands very noticeably swell or hypertrophy. Often this becomes a permanent deformity that gives a person's face a pronounced bloated look around the jaw line. This is the case with my own parotid glands. As a result, every time that I look in the mirror I see the damage I have inflicted upon myself. A parotidectomy is the removal of the superficial portion of the parotid gland, and undergoing this procedure will return my face to its normal proportions. It will also serve as a powerful incentive to never again engage in purging behaviors. 

New behaviors, a new face, a reclaimed life. Despite my periods of deep depression and dismal outlook on life in general, I do not want to die. Things can and will get better, and a step up from the bottom is still an improvement worth pursuing.  

My Entry for NPR's 3-minute Fiction, Round 11, "Finders Keepers"

Reclaimed Dreams

There was absolutely no logical reason for them to be there, but nevertheless there they were. Perfectly placed at the bottom of locker number 23 in the women’s changing room were a pair of seemingly brand new Air Jordan’s. Kate almost didn’t see them as she stuffed her duffel bag inside, hurrying to get into the pool before the seniors took over. But the flash of red and black caught her eye, and when she recognized the familiar swoosh on their sides, she let out an audible gasp.

Before she even realized what she was doing, her hands snatched up the sneakers, unzipped her duffel bag, and shoved the pair underneath her jeans and t-shirt. Her swimming routine forgotten, Kate quickly dashed from the changing room.

“Slow down Kate. Act natural,” she told herself. She forced herself into a casual walk but suddenly became aware that she was still in her swimsuit. “Oh, who cares. People walk out of here without changing all the time. No one will even notice,” she thought.

She slinked past the YMCA’s front desk, praying that the attendant wouldn’t notice that her hair wasn’t even damp, and in a moment’s time was out the front doors and into the parking lot. Unable to contain herself any longer, Kate bolted to her car, threw her bag on the passenger seat and locked the car doors.

With the adrenaline wearing off, Kate returned to her senses. “What am doing? I can’t just swipe someone’s shoes just because of stupid flashback.” But with that thought she felt compelled to look at them once more. She slowly opened the duffel bag, filled with a sense of regret, knowing full well that once her eyes fell upon those laces she’d never be able to give them back.

They were an exact duplicate of the pair she had worn all through her highschool basketball career. She always had big feet, and girl shoes just never seemed to fit properly. The other players used to tease her about them until that day she stepped out onto the court wearing those bad-boys. Air Jordan’s? Man, you could practically smell their envy. They were her trademark, borrowed from the greatest basketball player of all time of course, and she felt invincible every time she put them on for a game.

Until they failed her. Coming down hard after a lay-up, Kate felt that sickening pop as her ankle gave out and she crumpled to the ground in agony. When she got out of the hospital, Kate had been so furious with herself and the world that she threw away those shoes like they were cursed. But it really wasn’t the shoes’ fault. If that big oaf, Stacy Hildebrant, hadn’t gotten in the way she would have landed fine. Then she would have gone on to play college-ball, maybe have even gone pro. Instead, she ended up with six pins in her foot and spoiled dreams.

Returning to the present, Kate realized she had been crying. That future that never was still haunted her, but for some strange reason holding those shoes now gave her comfort. Whoever had left them in that locker was careless, and didn’t deserve them in the first place. She would give them their proper respect and make sure they stayed like new forever. Besides, Kate knew that they weren’t just sneakers; they were a time-machine to a past where she was a superstar and her prospects were boundless and full of promise.

Sam's Tale

This is Sam.

There were several animal shelters in the area, but I wanted to avoid anything associated with the town. I guess I figured that any dog from College Station would treat me the same way as all the people did, namely by completely ignoring me.

I decided to get a dog as a last ditch effort to save myself from myself. I was at point in life where I had just about given up. Not that I would ever kill myself, but I seemed to accept the idea of crawling into a hole and dying. All I did was go to work at a soul crushing job as a lab tech, come home and binge and purge for hours on end to deal with my misery, then fall asleep on the floor feeling worse than when I woke up. So in truth, I was killing myself; I was just taking the slow and painful route rather than a more direct method. I had difficulty finding a point to it all, and I just couldn’t find purpose in myself. I must have had some residual will to live, because I knew that I had to find a reason to get up in the morning or else one day soon would be my last.

I turned to the external for help. I needed someone who needed me. But what value could I be to anyone, and who the hell would have the patience to put up with me? I quickly realized that I couldn’t turn to a person for help and soon found myself searching the internet for a dog. Having a dog would bring purpose to my life. I would have to be there to take care of him, and at last someone would actually need me to stick around.

Like I said, there was no way that I was getting a dog from this town, so my search radius was anything within a hundred miles. If I had to drive 2 hours to get a dog then that’s what I would do. One animal shelter in Coldspring, Texas kept popping up on Petfinder.com, and it seemed to have a lot of dogs that were around the size and kind that I was looking for; about 25 pounds, he had to be a ‘he,’ and he had to be a mutt.

For some odd reason, all of the dogs were listed under breed as “corgi-mix,” even though most of them were clearly not part corgi. If a dog comes up past your knees it isn’t part corgi. Regardless, I looked through them all until I came across one with the unimaginative name of “Blackie.” Obviously, he was black, but he was also the exact size I was looking for and was described as “affectionate” and “house-trained.” It sounded like a winning combination to me, so I called up Coldspring Animal Rescue and asked if Blackie was still available for adoption. With the single word of “yes” I immediately felt a sense of relief. I was certain that I would soon have a loving companion.

Later that same day I went to Petsmart and bought everything that I would need to give Blackie a home. Two hours later and minus $300, I was back in my apartment putting together a kennel and checking that the stuffed squirrel, raccoon, duck, and quail toys all squeaked properly.

The next morning, I made the drive from College Station to Coldspring. Ninety miles of backwoods road across nothing, I had to constantly check my speed. Texas State Troopers have a field day on these types of roads, and they would stop you for just making a lane change without using your signal. I eventually made it to the small town and wound my down a narrow dirt road, hesitantly following the directions I was given. It seemed like an odd place to find an animal shelter, until I made it around the final curve and the place came into view. To call it a shelter was an understatement; it was more like a nature preserve for dogs! There were several, huge fenced-off sections that held between 15 and 20 dogs each, and in the middle of it all was mobilehome up on cinder blocks. As I pulled up, a cacophony of barks, whines, whimpers, and yelps went off, and immediately a grey haired woman emerged from the mobilehome.

I introduced myself, slightly yelling over the noise, and she led me to the area that held Blackie. When I got up to the gate, I was assaulted by a swarm of hyperactive mutts that were determined to lick my face off even if it meant somehow learning to fly. I had a hard time making out one dog from the next, but I clearly didn’t see any black dogs.

“Where’s Blackie?” I asked.

“Oh, he’s over there in the corner doing his own thing.”

Sure enough, sitting apart from the rest of the pack was a medium size black dog, tenaciously gnawing on a bone.

“Hey there guy,” I said in high pitch voice that I use when speaking to animals and small children.

Blackie paused his chewing for a moment, stood up, turned around, and plopped back down again, returning to more important matters.

Rejected. Even from a dog that I just met, it sort of hurt.

“He’s been here so long that he’s kind of gotten used to being here,” the caretaker explained. “Why don’t I show you some of the other dogs?”

Okay, sure, but if that’s the kind of dog that you consider “affectionate” I don’t want to know what you consider “mildly independent.”

At any rate, she introduced me to a couple of other dogs, and they all seemed nice enough. But they just weren’t what I was looking for.

“This is Lady, she’d make a great ‘inside dog’.”

“Yeah, but I kind of wanted a male dog.” (Nothing against females, I just prefer the male temperament, at least in canines. For people, it’s a whole other matter.)

“Oh, here we go. How about Scout? Isn’t he perfect?”

Uh, is he part horse? “He seems a little big for an apartment.” About a hundred pounds too big.

“Chichi?”

No chihuahuas. I want a dog not an overgrown rat.

“Jerry?”

As in geriatric? I mean, I know that old dogs need love too, but I kind of wanted one that would be around for a while.

Thoroughly dejected, I resigned myself to a lonely drive back home.

“Wait, I almost forgot,” the caretaker called me back. “We do have one more, but we have to keep him away from the other dogs. He’s incredibly timid, and he has a tendency to get a little panicky. Wait here, and I’ll see if I can get him to come out.”

Okay, what’s another couple of minutes?

She went around to the side of the mobilehome, and I heard her unlatch a gate. She let out a short “Oh my!” and a black blur sped towards me, kicking up dust like some sort of cartoon. Almost instinctively, I knelt down to catch him, but I didn’t even have to try because he ran right into my arms and began licking my face.

The caretaker caught up to us with a look of absolute shock on her face. “He’s never, and I mean never, done that before. He doesn’t even like it when people approach him.”

I had tears in my eyes, so I kept my head down when I replied, “I think he just picked me.”

At this point he was holding me as much as I was holding him. “What’s his name?” I asked.

“Sam. His name is Sam,” the caretaker answered.

“Let’s go home Sam.”

---------------

For as much as I like to think that I rescued Sam from an unhappy life at a shelter, I know that he has done far more to save me. Although he had some initial difficulties getting over his fear of everything (he was literally afraid of his shadow, and wouldn’t walk with the light behind him at night), Sam has been by side for the past 7 years. We’ve done everything together, and now with the addition of my other dog Jack (and two gerbils), we are a family. Maybe that’s an odd way of putting it, but it suites me just fine. Sam seems to agree.